Page 1 of When In Doubt

Chapter One

FREYA

“Babe, you gotta give it up.” The voice comes from my left, accompanied by the tap of a knuckle against my car window.

I force a smile, not needing to turn to know who’s knocking. “I got it!” I know she means well, but the tapping is rattling around in my skull, putting my teeth on edge. Maybe if I ignore her for long enough, Becca will head back into the diner and stop witnessing my shame.

Or, I don’t know, maybe a sinkhole could open up and swallow my car.

Either option would be acceptable.

“Oh, Freya.” I can practically hear the pitying smile. “You’re never gonna make it.”

I mean, she could have left me a sliver of hope. No need to crush my dreams entirely.

I huff through my teeth, trying to keep my smile in place even as I make a point not to look at her. I know I’m being rude, but I can’t do anything else. If I do anything other than clench the wheel, my eyes glued to the bumper of the Honda Accord parked a couple of inches in front me, I’ll break.

“I’m all good!” There’s an edge of hysteria creeping into my voice as I roll forward, stopping just before I clip the other car.

“Okay,” she says doubtfully. “You want me to guide you back?”

I’d been attempting to squeeze into the four feet of space left on Madison Street for five minutes before Becca emerged out of her diner. I’m just hoping that she’s the only one who can see how badly I’m screwing this up.

But, knowing my luck, half of Cedar Creek will be talking about what a shitty driver I am by the end of the day.

“No, thank you!” I channel confidence as I throw my station wagon back into reverse.

“Sure?”

“Yup!”

I catch a barely muffled chuckle through the door. “Well, swing by if you need a pick-me-up after this. My treat.”

I finally turn, just catching the way her purple braids swing behind her as she strides back inside. Her offer has the back of my throat prickling.

God, have I really gotten so unused to people being nice to me that even the offer of a hot drink has me clamming up?

Yeah, I suppose so.

Five months back in the town I haven’t lived in for thirteen years and all I have to show for it is a craft store that demands all of my attention and near-daily calls from the mom who thinks I’ve got no business being out here in the first place. I haven’t been picking up for the last four days, not wanting to hear it again.

It didn’t take long to realize that the whole “striking out on your own” thing is actually really fucking lonely.

With Becca gone, I take a second to try to quiet my racing brain before putting my hands back on the wheel. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I don’t know how I ever thought this would work. I stare longingly at the space three cars down where I park every Wednesday. The one currently occupied by a black pickup, mud streaked in long arches above the tires.

I’m certain I’ve had actual nightmares about this scenario playing out. I mean, is it really too much to ask that I be able to do the same things, the same way, without anyone messing up my routine?

Every Wednesday morning for the last thirteen weeks I’ve ran the library’s knitting circle, surrounded by seven folding chairs and the smell of burnt coffee. I listen to Joyce and her friends making catty comments about half the town’s residents and field the occasional barb sent my way. Then I drive back to the store, park across the street to unload my supplies, and get ready to open up Malcolm Yarn and Crafts before midday.

It’s not much, but it’s just how I like it.

I flick my turn signal with a groan, circling the block one more time before finally admitting defeat. I’m going to have to drive to my apartment and walk back. It’s a pain in the ass, but there’s no other option. This is the only street not closed for sweeping on Wednesdays. It’s like the town planned it just to screw with me.

The drive back to The Croft, my apartment building on the edge of town, only takes a few minutes, but I’m seething the entire time. Why can’t one thing go right today?

I pull in and move to slide from my seat, but I’m stopped short by a jolt as my coat snags on the parking brake. Shit. I guess the answer is no, I don’t deserve for anything to go right.

I swear I’m one minor inconvenience away from standing in the middle of the street and screaming.